Her skin was stretched tight across her expressionless face; feet splayed and knees barely supporting the gigantic watermelon held in by her yellow sari, bobbing on the edge of her seat.
In this bus you’re suspended in mid air no feet no hands just the rhythmic push and shove to and fro equalised sardines in a hurtling tin can
I wriggle my feet, looking for the corrugated metal floor, plant them around an old woman huddled up on the shuddering ground, fingers are blue, grasping the overhead bars. I’m twisting and contorting, trying to avoid the ocean of sweat running off the slick tonsured head infront of me. It is a beautiful head, shiny and dark; and I’m mesmerised by the unceasing flow of glittering beads. My arm is soaked.
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